“Are you coming or not?’’

“Yeah.” That’s all I say before we get in line together and I’m already shaking.

I didn’t want to say yes, but I also didn’t want to be a coward. I’m the type of person who gets scared easily and at this moment I’m beyond scared--I’m terrified. My brother and I stand together as the line quickly diminishes and there are only two people between us and what I thought would be the most thrilling and frightening ride of my life. The guy working the cars time after time looks bored out of his mind and tired of life. I don’t blame him, having a job like this.

“It’s not that bad. I’ve done it before,” my brother blurts out while not even looking at me.

He’s always had this weird form of sympathy where you don’t understand if he means it or if he’s doing it just for the sake of doing it. The type of thing where you no longer feel responsible for someone’s discomfort because you “tried your best.”

Unfortunately for him I’m just not that naive anymore. The rational part of my mind knows that it’s fine and it’s just a 2 minute long rollercoaster, but the irrational part of my mind that seems to consume the rational part at times like this screams about the man with no legs who went flying from this ride just years before. I think that calls for at least a little bit of paranoia--not everyone agrees with that.

People say that thoughts can’t scream because volume is a foreign concept to the mind, but I find that to be incredibly untrue. All sanity has left me completely and I know it. I know I have to do this because I want to be able to say I rode The Superman. It’s such a basic thing, but I care about it. I’ve been putting it off for a while. My hands are unconsciously gripping the cold metal of the barrier that has become my safe point and the place I can’t look away from. The adrenaline pumping through my veins has gone so far that I can barely feel it.

Now the people in front of us are getting ready for their turn and suddenly my heart jumps into my throat and my legs go numb.

Unbelievable.

The ride accelerates and I can see the shiny metal of the cars as it speeds off. What I can see is just barely a blur of what the rollercoaster used to look like.

I don’t want to be a coward. I don’t turn around. In this instant I feel small in more ways than one. I am cascaded by a shadow coming from my 6’2’’ brother and his back is deliberately all I can see. But I tell myself to keep going because it’s not a big deal. I can’t believe we’re twins; there is such an obvious difference between the two of us. I try to distract myself by looking anywhere but directly in front of me. The sky is blue but quickly graying as storm clouds threaten to break through.

I swear I’m seeing different colors as we wait at the front of the line and my pulse quickens. Suddenly there is a loud whoosh sound as the ride comes to a stop in front of us. My head snaps at the unexpected sound. Before I know it, the second rollercoaster car is pulled up all the way and my mind is completely chaotic. There’s no turning back at this point. What is really about 20 seconds feels like hours as I force my feet to move in front of me. My ribcage is contracting around my lungs uncomfortably.

“Next!” the car-working boy calls impatiently.

The difference between me either doing this or not doing this is time and fear; the time it takes me to decide and the fear that overwhelms my senses. But I have to do this. I just have to be able to do this. I take a deep breath, continue to walk and get into the car after I place my belongings on one of the shelves to the right of the rollercoaster. I knew before I came to Darien Lake that if I backed out today I would never do it.

I can still hear the exasperated pants of excitement coming from the previous riders.
“That was so great; we should go again!” I hear some kid call out.

My heart is racing like a bullet through wind and this time it’s from pure anticipation. My brother and I are side by side as the coaster starts moving and it’s quickly over. I instantly want to go again. This is both the longest and shortest 10 minutes of my life. My brother sighs dramatically--half annoyed and half comically--when I walk back towards the entrance of the “Man of Steel”.